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In "An Enigmatic Escape: A Trilogy," Dan Groat writes, "The bones of the oak tree that had stood by the spring branch during my youth were scattered about the ground, pieces of the skeleton of a majestic life that had passed while I was growing up and old."

I know how he feels.

For the first time in my life, the giant bur oak tree in the backyard of my great-grandparents, then grandparents, then parents and now sister's house, in Tilden, no longer shoots toward the heavens.

Saturday, family members, including our Malzacher cousins - Brian and Curtis - and Aunt Joyce joined us to watch the stately giant swoon to the ground.

Mr. Majestic Oak Tree, as Laurie called him, stood at least 65 feet tall and measured close to 14 feet around, so it was not an easy decision to have him removed.

We didn't have a choice.

Earlier this summer, I requested a Nebraska forester stop by to give the tree a check up. After applying the hammer test, checking pieces of bark and digging into hollow spots near the root system, her diagnosis: the bottom four feet were rotten.

Our concern was the what if. What if the tree topples during a storm and crashes on the house, or worse yet, one of the neighbors' houses?

I didn't want to discover the answer to the question.

"How old do you think the tree is," I asked.

A tree is like a woman; you never ask her age.

We estimate she's close to 200 years old.

I remember family reunions held under the shade of the oak. Lines of picnic tables filled with food. Relatives visiting, youngsters playing tag, Great-grandma Fields bringing a pan of fried chicken outside, telling us it's time to say our prayers and eat lunch.

There are photographs from other reunions, each of our families using the tree as a makeshift backdrop, each picture documenting how the mighty oak aged along with us.

There are also memories of picking green beans in Grandma and Grandpa Fields' garden early in the morning. Then we'd sit on the tailgate of the old blue International Harvester pickup, snapping beans in preparation for canning. The tree provided much needed shade, and if we were lucky, a cool breeze to still the stifling heat.

One photo, taken in 1980, chronicles all our immediate Fields family - aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents - snapped on my 19th birthday. Naturally, we're underneath the umbrella of the green leaves. If I remember correctly, heat and humidity were outrageous that day and even in the shade, most of us felt like we were wilting and couldn't wait to finish with family photos.

Saturday, Curt and I sifted through twigs and bunches of leaves, searching for acorns.

"Let's plant one and see if we can start a sapling," Curt said.

Both of us left with a dozen possible beginnings, hoping to start a new era of family memories and photo ops. If they root and grow, we also realize we won't be around to see them sprout toward blue sky.

Before the final 16-foot segment landed on the ground, my sister told me she was getting teary-eyed. Again

It's only a tree. True.

And, there's nothing wrong with being sentimental about losing a part of our family's heritage, a trusted and constant element we've grown up with.

It's the end of an era, a reminder of the ongoing process of life and loss, a bold statement about how even the majestic eventually crumble and return to earth.